


Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying

by quietrook



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abusive Bro, Abusive Bro Strider, Child Abuse, Gen, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 07:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6185323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietrook/pseuds/quietrook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave dyes his hair. What was he expecting? </p>
<p>Mature rating for abuse and mentions thereof.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Busy Living or Get Busy Dying

Your name is Dave Strider, and you're shaking. Not that you would ever admit it to any of your friends. You're leaning over the sink, gut coiling in the worst anxious ways over what you did. Your hair isn't dry yet, drips muddy brown into the sink, making it look dirtier than it already did. You grip the cracking ceramic basin and grit your teeth; you shouldn't have felt so shitty over this. It's just hair. It's just hair, how mad could he be? That sounded more like something one of your more optimistic chums would say. Jade, maybe, or even John. The thing is, you knew how mad he would get. That was part of the reason you did it in the first place. Maybe you're a glutton for punishment.

You grab one of his towels, the brightest and cleanest one. You dry your hair with this, revelling in how brilliantly the cloth is stained. Oh, yeah. Glutton for punishment. You're going to get in a lot of trouble, and that's almost why you do it. To get under his skin. What you really want, though, is just to get out, out from under. It's like his shitty anime shades that he gave you years and fucking years ago. The second worst part is they aren't even the right color. (The worst part is that you know they're not the right color.) Those shitty shades, and the way your hair looks, and even the way you fucking fight. Everything makes you feel like you're just a bigger puppet for him to control, some little carbon copy dummy sitting on the end of his knee. But now it's one less thing.

You hang the towel up and look back at the mirror. Your hair is a stark contrast from what it usually is; it's a shock of brown hair. No one usually says that when describing a main character. Befitting, too; you never really thought of yourself as one. You tuck stray strands behind your ears, sweep your bangs back to the side. Stare into your reflection for a while. Your bright irises are easily noticeable, as usual, but pale in comparison to the purpling bruise around your left eye. You put your shades on; it's barely hidden, but it's enough. No one asked questions when you went out earlier, anyway. Maybe they didn't think anything of a kid in jeans, long sleeves in this heat. Hoodie flipped up over his head. Sweating but not caring. Bandaids on his face. Shrinking from just about any accidental brush with a stranger. Right.

You glance to the toilet seat, where you set your phone before you started. You check the time; dangerously close to when your bro would be getting home for sure. You never could say when he would be there or not, but you've learned to suss out patterns in his fucked up schedule. Maybe you did this to get a rise out of him, maybe you didn't, but it's best to avoid him for as long as you can either way. When you finally encounter him, that's when shit hits the fan. So until then…

Until then, you stay in the bathroom. You take one of your practically patented selfies and make sure to link it to your friends. After that, you log out of Pesterchum. You aren't really prepared to talk about what you've done yet, and especially not with Rose. God, you just know she'll have volumes to say about it, and probably all right. You already tossed out the puppet that was hanging in the roon, and the fan is on to get rid of the smell of dye. Still, this makes for a very shitty hiding place. You take all the trash with you when you leave, throw it away in the kitchen trash can. Right in plain sight. Probably where you should be instead of hiding. You swallow any anxieties you have and head to the fridge.

There it is, your daily hands-free assessment of how fucking anxious and on edge you are (really it’s to test your reflexes or what the fuck ever but it only works because you're so hopped up on panic all the time): opening the fridge. You guess you could just keep your drinks out of the fridge, but you prefer them cold and the ice maker has been broken since fucking god knows when so in the fridge of fucking death and panic attacks they go. Now or never. Deep breath. You pull the door open and swiftly sidestep behind it, dodging at least five fucking swords. They’re probably not even that sharp, honestly, but with all the injuries you incur on a daily basis you've never been willing to test that theory.

All you wanted was some god damn apple juice and what do you get? Almost skewered like a kebab every single day. Makes the time your brother almost blinded you with your shades seem like a special fucking occasion.

You grab the cold bottle of AJ and set it aside. You usually cram the swords back inside on the off chance your bro will be the one they assault, even just once, but you doubt that it ever happens. You hop up onto the counter and open the juice, take a drink. You wait for him to come home.

**Author's Note:**

> Whether or not there's ever more of this depends on very specific criteria.


End file.
